


Flip the Tape

by penguistifical



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also there's a cow, needed to write something soft post 170 tbh, somewhat sad and somewhat soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24547819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguistifical/pseuds/penguistifical
Summary: “It just feels like there’s not enough happy endings to go around, sometimes.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 116





	Flip the Tape

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on some other things but I really wanted to write something post 170, and here we are
> 
> not ever explicitly gone into, but I feel this probably merits a  
> cw: neglect/anxiety/isolation/depression.

Martin's starting to get in the habit of waking up early for a morning walk. He doesn’t really have a purpose in where he wanders, he doesn't need to go into town today. It’s just nice to stroll for a bit and not think. He’s quiet as he leaves so as to not wake up Jon, who is currently curled up on the couch and looking like he hasn't slept in months.

His sleep schedule and Jon’s haven’t been at all synced up and so they both catch whatever hours they can. Martin doesn’t know when during the night Jon got up and moved from the bed to the couch, but he smiles helplessly at seeing the array of snacks for the walk, the water bottle, and the handkerchief Jon’s left for him carefully arranged on the counter. Martin doesn’t know what he’s going to do with one of Jon’s handkerchiefs on a short stroll. But, it was a gift from Jon, so he smiles and takes it anyway into his bag before heading out of the safehouse.

The road is misty in a way that should probably make him feel anxious, but it doesn’t. The foggy morning feels clean and light, droplets shining and soft like how he imagined it might feel to walk through a cloud. That was back when he was just a kid and didn’t know that his dreams were fiction and only his nightmares would turn out to be real.

No, despite the curling fog, it feels cleansing to be out strolling in the dawn. He feels grounded knowing that Jon is waiting for him, that he’ll return to tea and a hug in the safehouse. Unlikely the Lonely, this place feels lived-in. Even the farm areas he’s wandered to have a comforting feel of somebody’s home.

He’s startled from his thoughts by a soft noise on the other side of the fence he’s walking along, and he offers an automatic and apologetic greeting of “Morn….” that trails off when he sees he’s speaking to a cow.

He doesn’t know very much about cows, but this one is looking at him with large friendly eyes and has orangey fur. A marmalade cow.

His ‘Pet That Animal’ instinct fires up in full force, but most likely whoever owns this cow doesn’t want some stranger poking at it. The last thing in the world he needs right now is some angry farmer chasing him away with a pitchfork.

Well, no, he amends in his thoughts, as the cow continues to regard him calmly. Being chased by a farmer probably doesn’t feature anywhere close to “worst” on the list of things that could go wrong at the moment. He still doesn’t want to get yelled at, though.

A cheery, “Morning!” turns him back towards the fence. A rather grandmotherly old lady cocooned in shawls has come out to lean on the rail, looking about the polar opposite of the aggressive pitchfork-waving farmer of his thoughts. 

Martin gives her a hesitant smile and a wave. 

“You can say hello if you want,” the lady continues. “Rosemary’s a nice girl.”

It’d be a safer move to decline and head back to the safehouse, to not meet anyone. 

Martin slowly steps forward and puts out his palm for the cow to sniff on the basis that it works for dogs. The cow - Rosemary, even - whuffs out a hot breath into his hand and nudges him with her nose. As he slowly strokes over the rough soft stripe on her face, he can feel his smile growing.

“She likes you, I can tell,” the shawled lady tells him as if imparting an important secret. Martin hadn’t really planned anything for his day, but apparently the agenda is: going out for a walk at dawn and trying not to cry because a cow likes him.

“Are you a tourist, then? There’s not really any beds and breakfasts out here if you’ve come out for the hiking.” There’s nothing in her voice but friendly curiosity. 

“Sort of, yeah,” Martin hedges, patting Rosemary’s neck. “My friend is letting, uh, _me_ stay at her place.” He nearly says ‘us’ but changes it just in time, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the safehouse. He giggles as the cow nearly pins his hand against the fence as she leans into the scratch on her neck.

“Rosie, leave off,” the woman scolds. Her tone is fond and gentle, but Martin still feels himself freeze at the nickname he frequently heard Elias call. His face must show some of his horror, because the lady peers at him, and then nods decisively.

“Keep Rosie company for a bit, dear? I’ll be right back.”

Martin gently rubs the cow’s nose as the grandmotherly lady strides off. “You don't have to worry about anything finding you. It’s all right in your world, isn’t it,” he whispers to the cow blinking up at him in placid contentment. “I like you too.”

Rosemary’s owner returns in a few minutes and presses a scone into Martin’s hands, waving away his half-hearted protest. “I have plenty, dear. You look like you could use a treat.”

Martin wants to ask if she gave Daisy scones, wants to ask for stories that he can tell Basira and Jon, but he can feel his throat closing up at this simple kindness. He wraps the scone in Jon’s handkerchief and manages to say, “Thank you very much.” before heading back to the safehouse.

When Martin returns, Jon’s awake and sitting up, more or less. He’s slumped on the couch wearily but lifts his head from his hands when Martin opens the door and reaches for his hand over the back of the couch.

“Bad night?” asks Martin, gently squeezing Jon's hand.

“The usual.”

That probably means bad, but Jon doesn’t elaborate.

“See any good cows, then?” Jon asks. It’s become a joke, their joke, and Martin feels his heart lurch at the easy affectionate familiarity. 

“Yes, actually. Her name is Rosemary, and she’s wonderful.”

“Mm.” Jon closes his eyes and drops his head against the back of the couch. “Rosemary for remembrance.”

“What’s that from?”

“...I’m not sure, honestly. I probably read it somewhere.”

Martin smiles at Jon, and walks around the couch to sit next to him without ever entirely letting go of his hand. 

It’s so strange to have so many points of contact after being so separated from everyone. Martin feels hyperconscious of the way Jon’s hand feels in his own, of his thigh against Jon’s on the same couch cushion, of Jon interlocking his ankle with Martin’s as he leans to rest his head on Martin’s shoulder.

“You smell wonderful,” Jon murmurs.

“Yes, like a cow.”

“No, like freshness and growing green things seeing the sky for the first time, like new life.” Martin feels Jon’s tired chuckle. “You want to write that down, don’t you?”

“I might, yes.”

“Well, don’t let me get in the way of poetry,” Jon says, but snuggles in closer, and Martin doesn’t want to get up again, ever. “How did you meet a cow?”

“Her owner, I think? Probably? Her owner introduced us. She seemed like a nice lady.”

“Mm, probably the secret murderer of the village masquerading as a kindly farmer.” Jon murmurs.

“You _would_ like that." Martin says with a fond tap to Jon's leg. "Why can’t it be somebody secretly good?”

“All right, maybe she’s the secret genius that helps solve crimes in the village.”

“Yes, the incredibly crime-ridden small village.” Martin quips, and Jon laughs. “Really, Jon, she even gave me a scone. Seemed quite grandmotherly.”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Jon, and sighs. “Anyway, how was the scone?”

“I brought it back so we could share,” says Martin, retrieving the scone from his pack and unwrapping it. “And yes, I already washed my hands.”

Jon breaks the scone in half with mock ceremony, and hands Martin his piece to try. It’s delicious, tasting like currants and kindness and Martin finds himself swallowing down sobs instead.

“Martin,” Jon says, sitting up in alarm. “Come here.”

He coaxes Martin to lie down with his head in Jon’s lap, crying as quietly as he can while Jon slowly pets through his hair.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Jon asks, cautiously. Both of them know he could easily pull information out of Martin, that this is a conscious effort to leave the decision in Martin's hands. For that alone, Martin wants to answer him.

“It's just that...I'm not sure that I’m supposed to be happy,” Martin grits out, after trying and failing to stop the tears.

“Tch.” Jon’s sharp click isn’t dismissive or mocking, just an instant denial of Martin’s declaration, and his arms tighten around the almost-avatar of the Lonely. "You deserve to be happy, Martin Blackwood. That's a truth I'll say as many times as I need to." His voice fades from certain Archivist's back to careful Jon's. "Um, as many times as you want me to say it, that is."

Martin buries his head against Jon's leg. “It's not like that. It's just, I don’t feel like anybody ever really leaves the Institute and goes back to a normal life. That lady who gave me the scone, she could have been somebody in a statement, you know? So many of the people who came to give statements, they were just that, just people. The tape starts at ‘Statement begins,’ but they had lives before that. They had lives and families and then, just, something bad happened to them in the middle of all of that, they came to give a statement, and for most of them life never got better again.”

“Like you?”

“I don’t know that my life was good before I gave one either,” Martin confesses, and sobs at Jon’s warm hand rubbing his shoulder.

“It just feels like there’s not enough happy endings to go around, sometimes,” he whispers to Jon. Jon reaches down to him and gently brushes off tears, running his fingertips across Martin's face like Martin’s seen him carefully underline words, like Jon’s intently searching for vital meaning as he looks into Martin's eyes.

“Some people left the Institute.” Jon says slowly.

“Did they, though? It seems like even with the, you know, eye thing, they still somehow ended up back.”

“Well, then we’ll just have to be some of the first who left.” says Jon, like it’s easy. “Melanie’s all right with Georgie, isn’t she?”

“God, I hope so.”

“Me too. And, Basira’s out. We don’t know about Daisy yet.”

“Right.”

Jon cups Martin’s face in his hands, leaning in so that their foreheads touch.

“We’re out too, Martin. We left the Lonely, and we left the Institute.”

Martin nods against Jon, borrowing his strength for the moment, ready to lend his own again later when Jon can’t sleep.

Jon gets up after a few minutes and returns with a cold washcloth, slowly running it under Martin’s eyes. It feels so good to be held and cared for, Martin doesn't mind if Jon Knows that.

“You know....” says Martin, settling back into Jon’s lap. “All that archival training about retrieving details, and I got that cow’s name, but I didn’t get the lady’s.”

Jon bursts out in surprised laughter, rearranging Martin so that they can both lie down. “Well, we’ll definitely not be keeping our jobs after that. I suppose they’ll be dismissing us.”

Martin smiles against Jon’s chest and thinks ‘Us, us, _us_.’  
  


**Author's Note:**

> me: haha I'm going to write something horrible oh it turned out to be a bit soft  
> me: hmm today I will write something sweet OH NO it turned out to be a bit sad  
> that's how it goes sometimes
> 
> thank you everybody who leaves kudos and comments, you are all great and I really do appreciate it a lot


End file.
